


How Do You Say

by Anonymous



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crushes, M/M, Matchmaking, One-Sided Attraction, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-13 05:51:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17482379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “How do you even say something like that? I never—when you’re signing a trade deal or a peace treaty or receipts, no one ever says,I like you.There’s never a time when you can just say—just say—”America's voice trailed off.“What you feel,” finished Canada, dragging his gaze up from the table.(A threeshot of secrets told and kept, and the people that dance around them.)





	1. The Honest Truth

**Author's Note:**

> As someone who very rarely writes romance and feels very awkward doing so, I guess it shouldn't be surprising that in a fic written _specifically about romance_ , there's very little onscreen romance to be found. Feelings are discussed, thought upon, and skirted around, but actual romantic scenes are thin on the ground, and reading specifically for the tagged pairing is likely to be disappointing.
> 
> Nonetheless, it's still Valentine's Day in this time zone, so in the spirit of late-night attempts at commemoration, I hope you enjoy.

“You should tell him how you feel,” said Canada, eyes meeting America’s and then sliding down and away, towards the mapwork of cracks on the kitchen table. “That way—even if he doesn’t feel the same way—at least you’ll know. At least you won’t have regrets.”

They were sitting in Canada’s kitchen with plates of pancake crumbs before them, and America was thinking that Canada didn’t look much like a newspaper advice columnist. Maybe it was that America didn’t read many advice columns, but he’d always imagined the face behind those words would be older, staid and confident in their knowledge. Canada looked his age, face just as youthful as the face he saw in the mirror, and he was chewing on his lip, eyes still fixed downwards on the table. He looked like he had about as much insight as America did, which was true. America wasn’t sure what he’d expected. They were both fumbling in the dark, the blind leading the blind.

_You should tell him how you feel._

America couldn’t think of a better response than, _I’m afraid to._ And he wasn’t afraid. Of course he wasn’t.

It would be ridiculous.

“What,” he said, instead, “just go up to him and—” He waved his hands expansively. “How do you even say something like that? I never—when you’re signing a trade deal or a peace treaty or receipts, no one ever says, _I like you._ There’s never a time when you can just say—just say—”

His voice trailed off.

“What you feel,” finished Canada, dragging his gaze up from the table.

A long exhale. “Yeah.”

In the silence that followed, Canada kept looking at America, and America had the uncomfortable sense that he saw more than America meant him to.

“Ask him out,” suggested Canada, finally. His hands found his fork and he started to fiddle with it, turning the utensil over and over, metal catching the afternoon light. “Find a place. A _nice_ place, not McDonalds. Or take him to a garden, or to a museum. He likes them. Those are ordinary things.”

America gasped out a short, strangled laugh. “I’m not sure if you noticed, bro, but we’re not really ordinary.”

“So maybe it’ll do you some good to pretend to be.” Canada shrugged, returning the fork to his plate and folding his hands on the table. “It gets tiring sometimes, doesn’t it? Every conversation being about politics, about being a _nation.”_ He seemed to gain steam as he spoke. “It doesn’t have to be an alliance or a trade agreement, you know. It can just be two people on a date. That’s not a crime.”

America choked back another hysterical laugh. “ _Actually_ , about that being a crime—”

“It’s not one where you live, and it’s not one where he lives,” Canada reasoned. “Or where I live for the matter. So unless you’re planning a date in a _really_ creative location—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” America’s fingers tangled together. He pressed his hands flat on the table. “Just two people.”

“Unless you really need a chaperone—”

America crossed his arms and levelled Canada his best unimpressed expression. The other nation only smiled.

“Just two people,” Canada said, soothingly. “We can do that, you know. You’ve seen nations do that. Go in and out of relationships. It doesn’t have to be a big _thing._ ”

America’s lips stretched into a returning smile he didn’t feel. “I don’t, um, the going-in-and-out-of-relationships thing—”

“Sometimes it _is_ a big thing,” Canada amended. “It can be. It doesn’t have to be.” Seeing the look on America’s face, he sighed, and again his eyes slid downward and away, settling on his plate. “You—you do have to talk to him to start, though. None of the rest happens if you don’t talk to him.”

There was an odd tone to Canada’s voice, but America couldn’t quite pin down what it was.

“It’ll make things weird,” he said, plaintive.

Canada raised an eyebrow, looking back up at America. “What, weirder than they already are, with you pining over him and saying weird things and gossiping behind his back with me?”

America coughed. “I don’t want to say that cliché movie thing about ruining our friendship, but _actually—”_

Canada, rolling his eyes, reached out to clap a hand on his shoulder. “America. Look at me.” America looked. Canada through his glasses seemed more like an advice columnist than he’d previously thought, or perhaps more like a teacher, dissecting an answer in neat whiteboard diagrams. “You have a mutual defence pact. You share _spy data_ and _nukes._ You watch movies together and make fun of each other’s cities. That relationship had _better_ be strong enough to survive some confessions, or we all have more important things to worry about.”

There was a jittery butterfly feeling swirling in America’s stomach, and knowing that what Canada said was _true_ and _right_ didn’t put it to rest. If anything, it made it worse.

He searched his feelings. He searched his memories. He racked his mind for excuses and came up empty.

“Shit,” he breathed. “I’m really doing this, aren’t I?”

Canada smiled, again, with his hand still on America’s shoulder. “The bad conversations, the worst-case scenarios you’re thinking of—they aren’t going to happen. Things are going to work out _okay._ Trust me.”

As he spoke, he squeezed America’s shoulder.

_Trust me._

America did.

He met Canada’s eyes, blue to violet. Two layers of glass between them.

“Tell me the honest truth,” he said. “If you were me, would you go through with this?”

Canada’s smile faltered. His hand slid from America’s shoulder. For a moment it hung in empty air, and then both his hands were folded on the table, nails digging into knuckles.

“No,” he said, after a long pause, sounding like the answer had been dragged out of him with a fishhook. “But that’s on me, not you—”

America snickered despite himself.

“—and this conversation isn’t about me.”

Shaking his head, Canada reached out again. He gave America’s shoulder a little shove, then stood, chair scraping across the floor. America followed suit, shakier on his feet than he was accustomed to being.

“If I were you, then I’d be _you,_ and everything would be different,” said Canada. He picked up his plate, the fork on it rattling against ceramic, then reached for America’s plate. “But if you trusted me to be honest about _that,_ then you should trust me to be honest about this.” He turned to face America, plates in his hands, crumbs from the pancakes he’d made still on them. “You should tell him. No matter what happens, things will work out in the end, and you’ll be clearer for it.”

America was silent for a long moment, turning the words over in his head. His eyes picked out the edge of a syrup stain on Canada’s sleeve, the leafy autumnal pattern on his plates, the smudge on the corner of his glasses. Canada didn’t look much like a teacher or an advice columnist. He didn’t look like America’s reflection.

He looked like his brother.

_Shit._

_Do you trust me?_

There was really only one answer he had for that.

“I guess,” America began, then stopped himself. “I guess I’ll know in a few days whether I should thank you or punch you for talking me into this.”

Canada tilted his head to the side, as if envisioning both futures, and his eyes crinkled around the edges.

“I like my odds,” he said.

Then, “Call him Arthur.”


	2. Benedictions

“Thank you,” said England, and Canada, turning, blinked at him as if disorientated. The coffee machine he was standing at gurgled; he hastily moved his cup away. Hot liquid sloshed inside the cup, splashing the rim from side to side, not quite overflowing.

“America spoke to me earlier,” England added, by way of explanation. He realized that he was smiling. “He cited you and your, ah, ‘bullying tactics’ as the impetus.”

The cup steadied; Canada seemed to regain his bearings. “That’s libel. All I did was talk him out of being an idiot. I do it every day and I get no credit.” Wrapping both his hands around the cup, he stepped away from the coffee machine, one foot scuffing the floor as he examined England’s face. “So it went well, then?”

“It did,” England confirmed. He was still smiling. It must’ve looked quite ridiculous, but he found himself surprisingly unmotivated to stop. This was happiness, then, this light, impossible feeling that made every other concern fall away. It was better than being drunk.

“I’m glad.” Canada smiled back. “I really am.” The coffee machine was situated in a corner; Canada leaned against an adjacent wall. A sip of coffee briefly hid his expression. “Watching the two of you was like— _something_ was going to happen eventually. I just… swept the ice, if you’ll excuse the reference. Smoothed the way.”

“So you knew, then?” asked England, approaching to lean against the same wall. The tiles pressed against his shoulders. He saw Canada shift in the corner of his vision.

“For a while,” and there was an apology in the words. “Since the forties. I think—even before you knew yourself.”

“I ought to be annoyed with you for keeping that to yourself,” said England, without any reproach

Canada seemed to shrug. “These things take time. I don’t think I would’ve helped, by forcing it.”

England sighed. “I suppose not.” Other nations passed through the common area, Germany stopping at a different coffee machine, Hungary and Austria and Prussia lined up behind. “Was it really so obvious?”

“Maybe… a little bit,” said Canada, haltingly. “France noticed. Then other people started to notice. Out of everyone at this meeting—I don’t think more than fifty percent would be surprised. Some of us just caught on a little earlier.”

“And nobody said anything?”

“I’m sure France has said _something._ It’s just that he probably said it in a France sort of way.”

“Ah, he did,” said England, with a twist of his mouth, remembering. “Your intercession was far more helpful.”

Canada said nothing. England glanced over to see him taking another sip of coffee, steam from the drink fogging up his glasses.

“Well.” England broke the silence. “I should say we both owe you a favour after this. So needless to say, if you’re in a spot of trouble—the sort that can be talked out or the sort that can’t—give us a call.” He coughed. “I suppose you already do, in a way. But that goes doubly so.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Canada, barely audible.

England checked his watch. He stepped away from the wall. “I should get going. Have a good afternoon, Canada.”

“Have a good afternoon,” echoed Canada, nodding. There was a pause. Then he seemed to smile, the expression half-obscured by steam and the tilt of his paper cup, something sad stirred into it like milk and cream. “Have a good afternoon, and be happy.”


	3. A Song You Used to Sing to Me

In the moments after, he clung to the moments before, each word, each phrase, each flash of an expression. _Keep it. Keep it._

_Keep it and pin it up like a black-and-white photo so you never, ever regret it._

_Remember them like this,_ thought Canada, _happy._

There was a lump in his throat. His breath hitched once. That was all.

It was done.

-x-

As far as he could remember he had always been the _quieter,_ the _smaller,_ the _slower,_ patient where America was hasty, cautious where America was reckless. Perhaps he was older, but America had claimed so many of the _firsts_ of their young lives, like a children’s game, rushing to the top of the hill: first to college, first to independence, first to fly. There was this, though, that Canada thought he could lay claim to: he had been the first to fall in love.

Falling sounded like a sudden, desperate thing, something that filled your senses like an explosion, like a threat to life, but _falling_ had been a slow, steady transmutation, lead to gold, made of afternoon teas and letters and standing in the doorways of rooms, hands grasping at empty air. He hadn’t noticed it was happening until he was too late to change his course.

And he had made his peace with that. On a functional level, nothing had changed. He had always had to place another’s interests before his own, always had to look to another for direction, always had to take another into account, to aid and abet and support them, no matter what the cost, no matter how wide the ocean between them.

It was only that the imperative had ceased to be external and set up residence in his heart instead.

And he had made his peace with that. He had _._ It was who he was, that blind, steady loyalty; now this was what it was, this blind, helpless infatuation. He would have to be a different person to feel differently; he was settling into who he was. That infatuation was like the steady flame of a candle, warming his hands, lighting his way to where he needed to be.

He remembered, one night, in the aftermath of a battle, he had stood at a bedside with a candle in his hand, dim light light limning the barest details of a face, of bandages, the rise and fall of blankets. He remembered standing there, as the candle burned lower, counting the breaths, as if they would stop the moment he turned his back. It had scared him, how deep the fear had sunk its claws, how big the feeling was, how it strained against his ribs with every breath. He remembered knowing that everyone was asleep, that the hall was empty, that no one would hear him if he said the words, and yet he hadn’t, he had never come close to doing so.

Like the silence was where things disappeared, and speech was where they came to life. He’d heard that the truth would set you free, but what did it matter, _freedom,_ when you put it up against things like _safety_ and _family_ and _trust?_ What did it matter, when he could ball up the secret like dirty laundry, swallow down the flame like a circus trick and hide it deep down inside himself, where no one could touch it, where no one could see it, where nothing could be burned except himself? What did it _matter_?

(It mattered. It mattered to him.)

-x-

It had been during the Second World War, and England’s grip on his teacup had been white-knuckled, his hand shaking, tea sloshing from side to side inside the porcelain walls, splashing over the rim. Bandages peeked out from beneath the edge of his sleeve. Each casualty from the night before was gradually transmuted into another drop of tea staining the white tablecloth, translucent spots revealing glimpses of the mapwork of cracks beneath the fabric.

Canada had stretched out his hands, helplessly, grasping at air, placed one on England’s shoulder and squeezed.

“The children,” England said. “Promise—” His cup had clattered as he set it down on the saucer, a hard impact, his arm trembling as he disentangled his fingers from the handle. “Promise me you’ll take the children.”

“Of course,” said Canada. He’d choked on the words in his throat. There was nothing he could say to make it better.

England had sighed, then. War had carved great chunks from him, from Europe. The old world was tired and ravaged and changed.

“We’d better hope your brother throws his hat into the war,” he’d muttered, “or we’re lost for it.”

Canada thought he’d frozen, then. Maybe it had been the faraway look in England’s eyes, or the wish in the murmur of his voice, or something else entirely. Maybe it had been nothing at all, Canada’s own overactive imagination spinning thousands of disparate moments into a guess of a tapestry. Maybe it had been a deduction, or maybe it had been an intuition, but in that moment the realization had glinted in his mind, like a spark, a flake of gold, something that had been there all along finally coming to light.

He had made the journey across the ocean, but England’s eyes were still fixed across it. That was the way it was. That was the way it was going to be.

And he had nodded. He had made his peace with that.

-x-

 _Falling_ had been a slow, steady thing. Falling _out_ was a labour he couldn’t seem to complete. He could’ve wrestled with that sentiment, hacked at it with shears and axes, but instead he had set it aside, in some dusty corner of his being, and hoped that he would lose it like socks and coins in the couch, that it would fade like a neglected houseplant.

Maybe it was because he knew the shape of the feeling, knew what it was to look too long, speak too quickly, smile too wide, that he recognized it when it bloomed elsewhere. Or maybe it was only that when people were close to your heart, it was easier to note when they changed.

From the outside, the two of them looked less like transmutation, and more like dancers in the dark, struggling to find each other, tripping over feet, their own and others’, fumbling and swearing and so, so reluctant to let go.

So he gave them a candle to see by.

-x-

In French, a wedding ring could be an _alliance._ In every part of life, there was that exchange, between the functional and the emotional: one bleeding into the other, while being bled into in turn.

Bleeding was a good word for it. It called up _losing_ something, while also _giving_ it: matters of death and of the heart, matters of blades and medicine. You bled when you were wounded in battle, but also with donations, also with surgeries. It mattered whether you chose to or not.

He had never said the words because there had never been a moment when he’d judged it would do more good than ill. That was inaction, the _do no harm:_ knowing enough about the truth to make the decision to withhold it.

The decision to _act_ had taken more than the steady gravity-pull of obligation. It had taken a _push,_ a propulsion, some force welling up from inside himself.

 _Our loved Dominion bless_  
_With peace and happiness_  
_From shore to shore;_  
_And let our Empire be_  
_Loyal, united, free,_  
_True to herself and Thee_  
_For evermore._

Once he had been a colony with a blind, bedrock loyalty, and that was the song he had sung. But he wasn’t that person anymore. On a functional level, he had changed: he had found his own lighthouses, his own guides in the storm. He had settled into his own skin. There wasn’t room to harbour that breathless attachment in this new him, the him that wasn’t always looking over his shoulder for cues, that didn’t wait on docks until dusk blotted out his shores because half his heart was across the sea.

Falling out of love was a _labour,_ like a kind of independence. It hurt to draw away, but he thought it hurt like exercise, like growing stronger. The steps on the path that had led him from from responsible government to a new anthem on his lips had led him to here, searching the crowd in the aftermath of a meeting, trying to translate the functional into the emotional.

There was still a pang, like the breath going out of him, when he turned his head and saw the two of them hand-in-hand. But he kept looking.

He smiled, because they were happy.

He smiled, to spite the part of him that ached, to transmute that pang into happiness of his own.

He smiled, because like speech could bring wishes to life, like blowing out birthday candles and navigating by starlight, he knew it, he _believed:_

He was going to move past it.

He was going to be free.

**Author's Note:**

> The origin of the title is a song from the musical Dear Evan Hansen, the lyrics of which contain:  
>   
>  _"And **how do you say**_  
>  _I love you_  
>  _I love you_  
>  _I love you_  
>  _But we're a million worlds apart..."_  
>   
>  Thank you for reading, everyone.


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